Posts Tagged ‘transformation’

It will never be the same

April 4, 2020

Palm Sunday – 2020

Matthew 21:1-11

Marian Free

In the name of God who uses our pain and suffering to transform and renew us. Amen.

Life will never get back to “normal”. When this crisis is behind us the world will look very different What that will be like no one knows. There a will be vast numbers of people for whom this experience will have been costly in more ways than one, we as a community and as a nation will have learnt much and in many ways changed for the better. One difference will be that our congregations have embraced digital technology. A significant improvement for the community will be the inclusion of telehealth in Medicare that will save people the time and money that it costs for them to drive great distances for a repeat prescription and or to access therapy. Many businesses are already finding innovative solutions to the shut-down and the care and goodwill that is being shown by local communities and individuals will not easily be forgotten.

That is not to say that a pandemic is good or that it’s part of God’s plan but it is a reminder that if we allow them, pain and suffering and loss can lead to growth and transformation for individuals and communities.

In general humanity is not very good at dealing with trauma as has perhaps been demonstrated by the slow uptake of the government’s encouragement that we stay at home. People react differently to pain. Some wallow in it, enjoying the attention and sympathy they might receive. Others are stoic. “We all have our crosses to bear” is a refrain of those who seem to think that they are destined to suffer and must simply endure it. Some pull up the draw bridge and look at ways to keep the hurt out. Still others try to bury the pain through medication or sheer will power – imagining perhaps: “if I don’t think about it, it might go away” or “if I’m strong enough I’ll get through this”. Some people fill their lives with distractions (throwing themselves into their work or their social and family life, or by abusing drugs or alcohol) so that they don’t notice the pain. Still others simply deny that there is anything amiss with their lives; afraid to look too closely in case they do not like what they see or in case it overwhelms them.

I mention these various reactions not to be critical – I suspect that most us have reacted in similar ways during the course of our lifetimes. We all need strategies to deal with grief, trauma and loss – whether they are life-giving or not.

In today’s world, there is a tendency (at least in our privileged, self-absorbed Western world) to see pain and suffering as the enemy. We use language such as: “I’ll beat it” as if we can defeat everything (even death) threatens our idea of a good life and we forget that joy and sorrow, love and grief, success and failure go hand in hand. Many of us push suffering and pain to the periphery as if it did not belong to the swings and round-abouts of life.  Popular culture has encouraged us to embrace positivity and happiness as if they will steer us away from pain and despair. Motivational speakers make vast sums of money selling stories of how they overcame their adversity and telling anyone who will listen that they too can do this if only they believe in themselves and focus on the positive.

There is wisdom in focussing on the good rather than being absorbed by the bad, but if we deny the place of suffering in our lives and in the world, or if we ignore it rather than dealing with it, we will forget that suffering has something to teach us. As Richard Rohr points out, “we do not handle suffering; suffering handles us— in deep and mysterious ways that become the very matrix of life and especially new life. Only suffering and certain kinds of awe lead us into genuinely new experiences. All the rest is merely the confirmation of old experience.” [1]. In other words, if we spend our lives ignoring our pain, relishing our pain or burying our pain then we miss out on the growth, enrichment and the transformation that suffering can bring about.

Suffering is not good in and of itself, it should not be sought out and it certainly should not be imposed on others. But it does, as Rohr suggests, force us to reassess our values and our expectations, to separate the trivial from the important and to let go of our illusions about ourselves.

Holy Week reminds us that Jesus did not seek pain, but nor did he try to avoid it. He did not hide from the authorities but risked teaching in the open. He did not restrain Judas but let him conspire with the priests. He did not resort to the sword but submitted to being arrested. And he did not call down the angels but allowed himself to be nailed to the cross.

Had Jesus made different choices, he would not have died, but neither would he have been raised from the dead.

We can choose to hold on to what we have and what has always been, or we can let it all go and see what God will do with it.

This prayer/poem by Brother Richard Hendrick gives us something to reflect on this week and in the weeks to come.

So we pray and we remember that:

Yes there is fear. But there does not have to be hate.

Yes there is isolation. But there does not have to be loneliness.

Yes there is panic buying. But there does not have to be meanness.

Yes there is sickness. But there does not have to be disease of the soul.

Yes, there is even death. But there can always be a rebirth of life. (Brother Richard Hendrick, A Capuchin Franciscan living in Ireland. Quoted by Julia Baird in The Sydney Morning Herald,

April 4, 2020, p32.)

[1] Daily reflection, March 29, 2020.

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In Jesus, heaven and earth meet

February 10, 2018

Transfiguration – 2018

Mark 9:2-9

Marian Free

 In the name of God whose presence is revealed in unexpected places and at unexpected times. Amen.

“Thin places” are those places that were identified by the ancient Celts as sites where the barriers between humans and gods were particularly porous. Such sites were believed to be endowed with a particular sort of energy that was strong enough to be felt. In the United Kingdom such thin places were/are often associated with geographic boundaries or crossing places of one kind or another. Islands such as the Island of Iona – cut off from the land and sometimes invisible thanks to fog – were considered thin places. Fog itself and low hanging clouds which mysteriously hide a place from view give an air of mystery to glens and mountain peaks which in turn led to their being seen as places where the boundaries between heaven and earth were not only thin, but could on occasions be broken to allow passage between one world and the next.

The notion of ‘thin places’ is responsible for the practices that are associated with Halloween. It was believed that at that time of the year the barriers between this world and the next were opened up and that at that time the dead rose to trouble the living. Hugh bonfires were built to scare off the spirits and food and drink were prepared so that the spirits would be appeased and would not spoil the crops.

A Google search reveals that the idea “thin places” has been popularised in recent times by those seeking (or indeed having) spiritual experiences in “thin places” – old and new. An article in the New York Times offers travel advice regarding the author’s concept of places in which one might have encounters that unsettle and that challenge a person’s view of the world and of themselves. A blog entitled “Thin Places” offers tours of the “thin places” in Ireland.

When Augustine arrived in England he noticed that particular sites were popular with the locals. He wrote to Pope Gregory seeking guidance. The Pope responded that rather than abandoning such sites Augustine should capitalise on their popularity. Glastonbury Abbey being one such place. The “thin places” of the Celts became places of worship for the Christians in Britain.

While the terminology of “thin places” had its origin among pre-Christian religions, the notion of there being times and places in which God might be encountered has its roots deep within the Judeo-Christian tradition. In Genesis for example Adam and Eve are said to walk and talk with God, Abraham argues with God and Jacob wrestles all night with God. Later, Moses speaks to God face-to-face and Elijah sees God pass by. In the tradition of Israel, mountaintops shrouded in cloud were particularly significant as it was on Mount Sinai that Moses spoke directly to God.

Jesus’ Incarnation represents God breaking into the world in a dramatic and novel way, tearing down the barriers between sacred and mundane, bringing together in Jesus’ own self the human and divine. The Gospels of Matthew and Luke reveal Jesus’ nature through their accounts of Jesus’ birth, but Mark reveals this mystery only gradually – first to Jesus’ disciples and then to all.

The readers of the Gospel know the secret of Jesus’ identity because they are exposed to the new reality from the very start of Mark’s account. At Jesus’ baptism, Mark tells us, the heavens were torn asunder and a voice spoke from heaven. The tearing of the heavens and the voice of God are, in this instance, for Jesus alone (and in time for those reading Mark’s gospel). Mark suggests that though the disciples are in the presence of the divine (Jesus), they don’t seem to be aware of Jesus’ true nature. On many occasions they reveal that they do not understand, they are afraid even when Jesus is present with them and Jesus has reason to chide them for their lack of faith.

At the climax of the gospel, Peter identifies Jesus as the Christ (8:29) but his refusal to accept that Jesus will suffer demonstrates that he really doesn’t get it, he cannot yet see beyond the material and physical to the spiritual and immaterial. Six days after Peter’s declaration about Jesus he is taken, with James and John: “up a high mountain apart, by themselves”. Here once more heaven is opened, but this time there are witnesses. The figures of Moses and Elijah are seen not only by Jesus, but by the three disciples who not only witness Jesus’ heavenly transformation, but who also are enveloped in a cloud in which they hear the voice of God speaking directly to them: “This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!” It is as if Jesus recognises that the disciples need to be shaken out of their old ways of thinking, they need to be confronted with something amazing and inexplicable that will challenge their certainties and open them to the presence of God in their midst.

Just as Moses had a direct experience of God on the mountaintop so now, centuries later, do these three tentative, timid disciples encounter God and hear God’s voice. The veil between heaven and earth has been drawn aside for this one moment in time revealing to them the nature of Jesus and the nature of Jesus’ relationship with God. The divine and the human met together in one person, the eternal breaking through into the temporary changing forever the nature of our existence.

In Jesus, God is always with us. Talking about “thin places” is just one way to express the truth that throughout our lives we meet God in extraordinary places and in extraordinary ways, in the sacred and in the profane, in the natural world and in the people who cross our paths. Such experiences might take place in a Cathedral or on a busy street, when we are transfixed by an amazing view or moved by extraordinary poverty, when we are uplifted by a piece of beautiful music or the laughter of a child. If we are open to the presence of God in the world around us we will recognise these moments as in time and place where heaven and earth meet. If we allow God to meet us in this way our lives will be richer, our joy fuller and our faith deeper. Like Jesus, we will be transformed into what we are really meant to be.

 

 

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The impossibility of perfection

February 11, 2017

Epiphany 6 – 2017

Matthew 5:13-37

Marian Free

In the name of God who demands perfection, but who overlooks all our faults. Amen.

Most of us will have been astounded by the information coming out of the Royal Commission this week. The percentages of Roman Catholic priests and religious who are believed to have engaged in child sexual abuse are astonishing and distressing. (40.4% of all St John of God Brothers and 14.7% of the priests from Sale just for starters.) Not that we Anglicans have anything to be proud of – our percentages haven’t been published and we have escaped some of the worst excesses because we have very few religious orders and therefore fewer schools and children’s homes. What is interesting is that the revelations of child sex abuse has not led to vast numbers of practicing Christians leaving the church in disappointment or disgust. The reason for this, I believe, is that many people lost confidence in and abandoned the institution of the church decades ago.

Why then did people become disillusioned with the church? What caused them to abandon what was once a foundation of our society? It is impossible to be definitive of course and there are many and varied reasons why people no longer give up their Sunday mornings to attend church. My observations suggest there were sources of disquiet before our record on child sex abuse was exposed. Among these was the perceived discrepancy between what the church preached and how the church and its members behaved. It was not uncommon in the sixties and seventies to hear the charge of hypocrisy leveled at the church. There was a feeling among some that the church and its members did not live up to the standards it imposed nor did it live out the principles it proclaimed – “forgiveness of sins” and “unconditional love”. And there was disquiet with the way in which church applied these principles such that a woman who was abused by her husband was asked to forgive, but the abuser was not asked to stop the abuse or that a young woman who found herself to be pregnant was forced to give up her child. The church of the fifties and sixties often claimed the moral high ground when it was clear that its members were as vulnerable and flawed as the rest of society.

One of the problems, at least so I believe is the way in which the faith has been taught which in turn relates to the way in which the church assumed the role as the guardian of morals for society at large. So while it may not have been universally true, it seemed to me that the church placed an emphasis on “being good” or with keeping the Ten Commandments. There is of course no problem with encouraging goodness except that, not only does it suggest that being good is sufficient in itself and have the effect of emphasising obedience to a set of rules rather than on having a change of heart, it also indirectly suggests that it is possible, by adherence to the rules to somehow become faultless, to achieve perfection. The reality is, that while it is relatively easy not to steal, not to lie, not to commit adultery and not to murder, it is impossible for anyone to be absolutely perfect. So a person who is able to obey the rules might present an outward show of goodness or uprightness that may or may not hide an inner turmoil of selfishness, mean spiritedness or anger. Such a person is rightly called “hypocritical” because he or she makes out that they are one thing when really they are another and any discerning person can see through the surface to what lies beneath. It is this sort of double standard or false image that brings the church into discredit – a belief that what is on the surface is more important than what lies beneath.

It is exactly this sort of complacency that Jesus is challenging in the strange and disparate mixture of sayings that make up today’s gospel. It is not enough Jesus says to stop short of killing someone – anything less than unconditional love of the other is the same as murder. Not committing adultery is commendable, but if we have lustful thoughts towards someone to whom we are not married then we demonstrate that we are a long way from achieving the sort of perfection that rivals the righteousness of the scribes and the Pharisees. In other words, there is not a sliding scale of perfection – one is either perfect or one is not.

Jesus is demanding the impossible – or at least that is how it seems. No one can be perfect except God and Jesus who is God. But that is just the point – we can’t be perfect. Few if any of us would ever be able to achieve the sinlessness modeled by Jesus and the good news is that we do not have to. What we do have to do is recognise our imperfections and acknowledge that we are no better than anyone else. Instead of comparing ourselves with others in order to reassure ourselves that we are somehow superior, instead of papering over our inner weaknesses with a superficial show of obedience and goodness, Jesus suggests that we recognise that we share the same faults and flaws as the rest of humanity. Only if we have the courage to see ourselves as we really are will we be able to change into the people God wants us to be and only if we have the confidence to allow others to see beyond the surface will they accept that we really are authentic and that even though we fail, we are struggling to live the faith that we proclaim.

God demands perfection – not because perfection is possible, but because it forces us to recognise our imperfections and to throw ourselves on God’s mercy.

If we have been putting on an outward show, if we have been trying to fool ourselves and others, perhaps now is the time to be honest with ourselves, to let go of any falsehood and to realise that only if we recognise that we need to change, will it be possible for God to change us.

 

 

 

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The cost of transformation

June 18, 2016

Pentecost 5 – 2016

Luke 8:26-39

Marian Free

 

In the name of God who soothes our sorrows, calms our fears and restores us to wholeness. Amen.

Just as the world was appalled when Boko Haran kidnapped 200 girls from their school in Nigeria, so the world applauded when some were discovered and brought home. While the restoration of the girls was a victory of sorts, few of us would understand the double burden that those young women carry. Traumatized and brutalized by their kidnapping, raped and abused by their captors, many of them returned home to discover that their own communities no longer accepted them. The girls who returned were not the girls who had left. They had lost their virginity and their innocence, the communities felt ashamed at their inability to protect the girls from harm but also ashamed by the perceived dishonour that the girls brought to their family’s of origin. Many of the victims now occupy a kind of no-man’s land, belonging nowhere, having no support and no certainty for the future.

They are not alone. Theirs is a story that is repeated in refugee camps throughout the world. Women who have escaped war or famine find themselves vulnerable to abuse and rape in the camps. Instead of finding sympathy and support from their family and wider community, they find themselves despised and rejected again because they are no longer the person they once were. Even within our “enlightened” Western society, there are young women whose relationship with their fathers is irrevocably changed when they are attacked or raped. Unconsciously and irrationally fathers find themselves unable to relate to their daughters who have been forcibly made into women.

A similar scenario is sometimes played out when the seemingly opposite occurs – when a family member is restored to health after a long illness. Although it seems contradictory, families and communities can mould themselves and form a new identity around the illness or disability of one member. Their new identity as carers for the vulnerable and their sense of purpose can be radically disrupted if the person for whom they care is restored to health. They no longer know what to do or how to behave. So while they may appear to be delighted that someone who was unwell is now well, there may be all kinds of subtle signs that tell the one-time sufferer that they are now uncomfortable in his or her presence.

Experiences of conversion can also have the effect of alienating a person from their family and community. When one member comes to faith, others can feel awkward around them. They no longer feel comfortable behaving the way that they use to behave – they are unsure what the rules of the new relationship might be, they wonder if they need to change their behaviour (stop swearing for eg), they are anxious that the newly converted might try to convert them. Over time, such discomfort can cause the relationships to break down.

It is only when we understand these complex family and community dynamics that Jesus’ instruction to the demoniac is thrown into relief.

Both the location and the presence of pigs tell us that Jesus is in Gentile territory. There he was accosted by a man who lived among the dead, a man who at times was so violent and uncontrollable that not only was he banished to the graves, but he was shackled and kept under guard. The demons that possess the man cannot bear to be in Jesus’ presence that traumatizes (“torments”) them. Realizing that there is no escape, they choose their fate – to enter the pigs. The demoniac is restored “to his right mind”.

Not surprisingly, the man who was possessed by demons wants to follow after the one who has saved him. His sense of amazement and gratitude will have been enough for him to follow Jesus, but perhaps he knew that he would find no welcome among the community who had rejected and restrained him. He may have sensed even if he did not know that in his absence the community will have found new ways of being and that relationships will have been redefined. There was no longer anything for him in his hometown.

Jesus has other plans. He asks the man to do something that is more difficult – to return to his home, to face the changes that have occurred, to rebuild relationships and to share with them his faith in Jesus.

As we will be reminded next week, discipleship is not without its costs. It may require leaving behind one’s home and family, facing ridicule and rejection or being a source of discomfort for those who thought that they knew you.

Being in a relationship with Jesus can be a powerful, transforming experience, but it can come at a cost. The good news is – that the rewards of discipleship far outweigh anything that we have to give up, any discomfort that we have to endure and any rejection that we might experience.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Living Dangerously

February 28, 2015

Lent 2 – 2015

Mark 8:31-38

Marian Free

 

In the name of God who invites us to take risks, to live dangerously and to have fun. Amen.

Over the past week or so I have been reading an interesting book entitled: “Why Men Hate Church” by David Murrow. The book addresses the obvious – the fact that in most Christian denominations women outnumber men, often by a considerable number (something which is not entirely accounted for by the reality that, on the whole, men die at a younger age than women). Admittedly I have only had a cursory look at the book[1], but from what I have gleaned it is something of a “Men are from Mars, and Women are from Venus” sort of thesis. Murrow argues that men and women think differently, act differently and want different things. He suggests that even though until recently men dominated the leadership of the church; for the last 1300 – 1400 years, the church has been increasing feminised. Murrow contends that around the year 700 the church lost its edge. At that time, he claims, the church gave up the emphasis on struggle and sacrifice and replaced it with a call to passivity and weakness. The image of Jesus changed from someone who was strong and courageous to someone who was meek and submissive. This in turn, he suggests, has led vast numbers of men and some women to feel at best uncomfortable and at worst unwelcome in many churches.

Assuming Murrow’s thesis to be true, we can of course document exceptions to the rule. As ill-conceived as they were, the crusades provided an opportunity for displays of courage and self-sacrifice, as no doubt did the two world wars. Throughout the ages, Saints such as Joan of Arc, missionaries such as Graham Staines and his sons Phillip and Timothy, clergy such as Dietrich Bonhoeffer and Bishops such as Oscar Romero have been willing to take greats risks and lay down their lives for the faith.

By and large though, the institutional church has settled down, become a part of the surrounding landscape and played it safe. It could not be argued that we at St Augustine’s live dangerously or that we take risks that might cost us our place in the community, let alone cost us our lives. Murrow suggests that this is one of the reasons why some people do not come to church – they don’t want to be safe. They want to be dangerous. Risk-takers, fun-lovers and builders he claims, do not find enough in our liturgy or our community life that is challenging or that takes them to the edge and so they stay away.

I am not at all sure that I agree with Murrow’s overall argument (among other things he is writing from a North American perspective) but his book does provide some food for thought and leads to a number of questions. Have we created a kind of mono-culture which leaves some people feeling as though there is no place for them in the church? More importantly it forces us to ask – what are we really about? Have we forgotten that the gospel is all about living dangerously, not about building a secure and comfortable place in which we can now (and forever) feel at home? Worshipping in our beautiful churches, using a liturgy with roots that are ancient, gathering with our friends week by week, have we lost sight of the fact that the Son of Man had nowhere to lay his head and that the early disciples were called away from all that was familiar and secure to a life in which almost nothing was certain except for uncertainty and risk. In our efforts to be part of the world around us, do we allow injustices to go unchallenged? In other words, are we really living gospel lives?

I suspect that we all suffer from a form of collective amnesia and that for the most part we put our efforts into keeping the institution of the church alive, rather than worrying about the survival of the gospel. That said, that model has served us well for centuries. As long as the community around us was predominantly Christian, the church has served the purpose of building up the community of faith. Through worship and prayer we have supported one another through difficult times and been challenged to grow in faith and faithfulness. Our faith has enabled many of us to take risks of sorts, to trust God when we have had to make difficult decisions or to step out in faith when we had no idea what the future held for us.

Times have changed. We can no longer assume that members of our local community hold the faith or that those who do will join our worshipping community. This being the case, how can we ensure the continuity of the gospel? How, in this changing world can we share with others this amazing gift of faith?

One answer is this – if people don’t come to us, we must go to them. We must ask those who do believe in Jesus Christ why they don’t join us. Is it because our culture and practice make them feel unwelcome? For those who do not believe we must explore new ways of making conversation, new ways of letting them into our secret. If the Christian church is to survive, we must be bold and courageous. We must seek out builders, risk-takers and those who are prepared to live dangerously and we must allow them to make us feel uncomfortable for a change. We must step out of our comfort zones and do things differently for a change.

Whether we like it or not, we must change or die. Or, perhaps as today’s gospel puts it, we must die to all that we are and all that we have known so that God’s purpose can be worked out through us. Jesus didn’t call us to be safe – anything but. His call to follow is an invitation to live on the edge, to let go of the past and to begin each day as if it were our first. We are not invited to be comfortable or complacent, but to be adventurous and daring, open to change and to challenge. We are only here because twenty centuries ago there were those who were brave enough to step out of their comfort zones and leave everything behind in order to answer Jesus’ call. Their courage and willingness to take risks ensured that the gospel message, not only survived but spread throughout the world?

In the twenty-first century, do we have the courage to answer the call? What are we prepared to leave behind to enter the future God is preparing for us?

[1] If you are interested, I suggest you read it for yourselves. Murrow, David. Why Men Hate Going to Church.

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